


They Knelt to Her

by Athenais_Penelope_Clemence



Series: Anne Boleyn. Postmortem and memorial one-shots [6]
Category: The Tudors (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Drama, Gen, Mental Anguish, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:16:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4036513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence/pseuds/Athenais_Penelope_Clemence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne Boleyn is dead. Charles Brandon comes to King Henry to tell him about Anne's execution. Henry is not pleased to learn that the people treated Anne more like a martyr than like a whore and a witch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Knelt to Her

**They Knelt to Her**

King Henry stood near the window that faced the magnificent royal gardens embroidered with flower beds and sequined with pools of dark green water. Henry watched a silvery swan swim in a very still tranquil pond with great reflection in the still water, thinking that a swan’s neck was so much like _her_ neck that should have already been separated from _her_ body by the cold steel of the French sword.

Henry heard approaching footsteps in the hallway and the door opened suddenly, but the King didn’t turn around. Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, stepped properly into the King’s presence chamber. He scanned the chamber with his eyes and saw Henry standing near the window, looking outside. Charles cleared his throat to attract the King’s attention, but Henry didn’t react. Charles froze at the doorway, thinking whether he should go inside until Henry permitted him to come in.

“Is it done?” Henry asked, not looking at his friend.

King Henry easily guessed that it was Charles Brandon who came to him to deliver the news about the death of the woman whom he hated with his entire being, and whom he had once loved more than anyone else in the world. He prohibited everyone to disturb him on the morning of Anne’s execution, saying that only the Duke of Suffolk could be allowed to enter the presence chamber. He had already known that Anne Boleyn had no longer been the part of this word because he had heard the distant sounds of the cannons that had fired along the Tower Wharf, signaling Anne’s death.

Charles closed the door and made his way the window, but stopped in the middle of the chamber, hesitating. “She is dead, Your Majesty,” he declared, struggling to keep his voice devoid of emotions. Even though Henry stood with his back to him, he bowed slightly to his sovereign.

Henry swallowed hard. “Did she suffer?”

“The French executioner did his job very well,” Charles replied in a low voice. “It was very quick.”

The King clenched his fists; he still wasn’t looking at Charles. “In her letters, which she wrote to me from the Tower, she pleaded with me to hire a French executioner, not wishing to be beheaded by an axe. I satisfied her request because I will never let anyone doubt that I am a merciful and fair King. It was my last act of mercy to this whore, though she didn’t deserve ant grace and kindness from me.”

Anne Boleyn was utterly and completely dead. Henry continued to stare at a swan swimming in the pond, his mind lost in the memories of the happy days when he had loved Anne and had believed that she had loved him. He felt numbness overcome him as mind created the picture of her severed head on the scaffold, and he felt his blood run cold: a part of him regretted her death and missed her at least because they had spent so many years together.

Charles watched the King with curious and anxious eyes. He scarcely knew what to say to his King after his announcement. Henry was talking quite carelessly and seemed to hate Anne, but Charles knew that the King was more affected by Anne’s death than he showed and even admitted to himself.

Henry shook his head. He reminded himself of what Anne had done to him, feeling anger begin to simmer in his veins. He prohibited himself to feel any sympathy to the Harlot who had embarrassed him in the eyes of Christendom and had betrayed him. The news about Anne’s death suddenly seemed the words of a herald proclaiming the new awakening of the world. Henry suddenly felt elevated that he had been free from the woman who had caused him so much pain. The evil terrors of the night had departed, and the sunlight of liberty and right and justice was beginning to shine in Henry’s life.

Henry laughed merrily. His cursed marriage was officially finished because Anne Boleyn had died; the past years of Anne’s treacherous affection and the decades of disappointment were over. Now he could think of his beautiful and virtuous Jane. Henry couldn’t wait to see Jane again, look into her gray eyes, and speak to her about his love for her. Soon they would become betrothed and would be married. He couldn’t wait to make Jane his wife and Queen, to be his in both body and soul. He believed that she would surely give him the handsome, healthy son he had always dreamt to have.

“The Harlot paid for her sins,” the King hissed between clenched teeth. Charles couldn’t see it, but a happy light came into Henry's face as Henry spoke words of thanks to God that Anne had been dead.

“Your Majesty, there is something you need to know,” Charles began, with some hesitation. “I fear I have to tell you about some circumstances of her execution, which you may not like.”

Henry turned around and looked at Charles with interest. “Tell me everything,” he demanded.

Charles didn’t want to talk about the execution of the doomed Queen, especially knowing that his words would enrage the King and send him over the edge. But he himself had already started the conversation, and he had to continue it because the King commanded him to talk, even though he knew that Henry’s mood would be particularly sour then. Truth be told, Anne Boleyn’s death didn’t make Charles as happy as he had thought he would feel.

“When Lady Anne appeared at the scaffold, a great murmur rose from the crowd,” Charles continued in a low voice that sounded almost unperturbed, but only almost. “She and her ladies climbed to the scaffold, which was draped in black cloth and covered in straw. As Your Majesty mercifully permitted Lady Anne to be decapitated by a French swordsman, there was no block, and she had to kneel upright for the blow.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “She glanced around at the crowd, looking composed and calm, not lingering her gaze at anyone. Then she turned to Master Kingston and begged let speak to the people; he permitted her to speak and she addressed the crowd.”

“Go on,” the King prompted.

Charles lowered his eyes. “She said that she accepted her death and that she humbly submitted herself to Your Majesty’s will. Then she humbly asked the pardon of the world and asked everyone to pray for her. Then her ladies helped her prepare for death, and she thanked them for their service to her with a reserved smile on her face. Then she forgave the headsman for what he had to do, and handed him the sack of coins as his payment; I assume that it was later handed out to the poor.”

Charles summarized Anne Boleyn’s speech, though he had conveniently dropped the detail that in her execution speech Anne had even praised the King who had unjustly condemned her to death. But he couldn’t tell Henry about that because he didn’t want to risk arousing even a small portion of guilt in Henry’s heart, knowing that it would do nothing good to the King and the courtiers.

But Charles knew that the image of the beautiful and tragic Anne Boleyn who had met her death with courage and grace that befitted the Queen of England had been engraved into his mind forever. Anne’s words “ _I pray and beseech you all, good friends, to pray for the life of the King, my sovereign lord and yours, who is one of the best princes on the face of the earth, who has always treated me so well that better could not be, wherefore I submit to death with good will, humbly asking pardon of all the world”_ would be ringing in his ears forever, mocking the King and his counselors.

"Very well,” Henry said briskly. “This witch dared ask the people to pray for her, but it won’t help her. She committed mortal sins that cannot be purified; she condemned herself to eternal damnation.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Charles responded automatically.

“What happened then?”

Charles sighed heavily. “Then Lady Anne knelt in the straw and began praying quietly to God, waiting the blow.” He paused, fighting off a trembling fear to give the final part of the tale. “Then the great divine descended upon the crowd, and the people knelt to her, saying quiet prayers for her soul. The people prayed for her until the headsman unsheathed his sword from underneath a heap of straw and the French steel met her neck.”

King Henry cursed and narrowed his eyes to slits, his face grew grave. Dressed in a black doublet with white slashings laced in the front and trimmed with rubies and diamonds on the sleeves, a coronet adorning his head, the King looked like a young and powerful ruler of the realm, his aquamarine eyes piercing the face of his best friend. His fine, expressive, intellectual face was contorted in anger and hatred, feeling as though someone had wounded him in his chest and ripped his heart from him. He couldn’t believe that the execution of Anne Boleyn had such a strong affect on the people.

Henry stared at Charles incredulously. “It cannot be true,” he said, exasperated.

“They knelt to Lady Anne,” the Duke of Suffolk repeated gravely, mastering as much courage as he could. “Then her head fell into the straw and was immediately covered by a white handkerchief.”

“Did you kneel to her, like others?” Henry asked, his anger boiling.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Charles admitted reluctantly; fear seized his entire heart.

The King looked displeased. “I don't believe that it was the best course of action for you, one of my most loyal subjects and my best friend.”

“I couldn’t stand when everyone knelt to her. I sincerely beg my pardon if my actions offended Your Majesty,” Charles ventured to say, then lowered his head. His nervousness increased, and he clasped the fingers of his both hands together, as if to force himself to be composed.

Charles knew that Henry was overwhelmed with anger. He waited for more rage and anger to come as in the past Henry had often begun destroying interiors of his chambers when something had gone not as he had planned. But Henry stood still, and Charles began to hope that there would be no further outburst of anger and that the meeting would be over soon. Already he saw himself on his way to the home, back to his wife, his lovely Catherine Willoughby, who shared his hatred for Anne Boleyn.

Henry stood in an ominous silence for many moments, allowing the knowledge about the people’s sympathy to the deceased Queen to rush over him. His mind tried desperately to rationalize the information, but he found himself unable to believe Charles. It couldn’t be true that all those people had knelt to the Harlot after she had slept with a hundred of lovers during the time of her short but tumultuous queenship. Henry cursed Charles for sharing all these facts with him, knowing that he would be haunted by the recollection of their conversation until his dying day.

Charles grew puzzled when Henry was quiet. But all of a sudden Henry broke into a maddening laugh. Henry was laughing so hard that tears came into his eyes; he didn’t know why he was laughing because there was nothing hilarious in Charles’ tale. Then the King relapsed into silence, feeling as though the very ground beneath his feet was falling away.

“Why are you lying to me, Charles?” Henry didn’t want to believe that it was true because the truth physically hurt him. He had hoped that the people of England, who had hated Anne Boleyn so much during her life, would hate her even more after her death. How could it happen?

“I am not lying, Your Majesty.” Charles already regretted that he had told Henry about that.

Henry drew a whizzing breath, his expression evolving into sheer hatred. “How dare these people kneel to the Whore who had wronged their King? How dare they act as if she were a martyr?” He came to the nearby table and smashed his fist down on the surface. “How dare they pray for her damned soul?”

“I don’t know.”

The King began pacing the room with large steps. A multitude of emotions flooded him; he wanted cry, scream and rage all at once. “Why don’t they care that she had been condemned to death on the charges of adultery, incest, and high treason? Why don’t they care that she wronged the whole nation and me, the King of England and the lord of the English realm?” he shouted, his voice edged with hatred. “I can send all these people to the chopping block if they show sympathies to their Whore!”

“Your Majesty, the thing is simple enough," Charles Brandon said cautiously, hoping that his words would soothe the fuming King. “The commoners are naïve and undereducated. They understand nothing in politics and executions.” He couldn’t tell Henry that Anne Boleyn had looked so dignified and had behaved so courageously that it had impressed the common people to the depths of their hearts.

“Anne Boleyn is an adulteress and a witch!” Henry screamed in rage. He stopped pacing the chamber and stopped in the middle, next to Charles, his eyes shooting daggers. “She bewitched them, like she bewitched me and lured me to marry her!”

“Yes,” the Duke of Suffolk agreed out of necessity, with his eyes downcast.

“What happened to her body?” the King inquired, quickly, and anxiously.

Charles didn’t look at the King as he spoke. “The burial preparations had not been made in advance, and her body lay on the scaffold when I left. I supposed that it could still be there.”

“I hope this whore will rot in hell,” Henry said between clenched teeth. He shook his head slightly to rid his mind of the thoughts about Anne. “Everyone will remember her as the Harlot.”

“Your Majesty is right,” Charles retorted, trying to hide doubt in his voice, but his voice still sounded pathetic. He had witnessed the death scene of Anne Boleyn and he himself had still been affected.

Henry glared at Charles. “You disappointed me, Charles.” His voice was ice when he spoke.

Charles Brandon sighed. “I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

Charles expected to hear more words of sharp reprimand from the King, but nothing followed. Henry glanced towards the clock resting on the table near the fireplace, and his mind created a wonderful picture of joy and happiness of his future life with Jane Seymour. The King placed his hand on Charles’ shoulder, and then laughed lightly, surprising the other man.

“I want to see Jane. I miss her so much,” Henry declared in the most cheerful tones, his aquamarine eyes glowing. “My new life is starting today! Jane is my future Queen!”

Charles smiled, relieved. “I wish you happiness with Lady Jane, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Charles.”

“Welcome.”

Henry was beaming. “My Jane will be my only true Queen because I was never married to Catherine and to the Harlot.” There was an airy smile on his face. “She will be my most beloved wife! She will give me my long-awaited Prince of Wales who will rule after me for a long, long time!”

King Henry was talking in a matter-of-fact way and with devilish confidence, as though he had been given divine prophecy about the fates of Jane and his future son. Unfortunately, he didn’t know that all his dreams of a secure, happy, and loving life with Jane Seymour and their son were destined to remain only empty dreams. He couldn’t know that Jane would die from childbed fever in less than two years after their wedding. He couldn’t know that his son Edward would depart from Earth only in six years after his own death. If someone had told him that Elizabeth would become the greatest monarch in Christendom, he would have ordered to have that person hanged, drawn, and quartered.

“I am sure Jane will make you happy.” Charles meant exactly what he said.

“I am going to marry Jane very soon,” Henry informed, a happy and proud light leaping into his eyes. “All my courtiers have pleaded with me to venture once more into matrimony in the hope that my bride will produce a legitimate heir and bring prosperity in England.”

Charles knew the King bluffed slightly, but he liked that Henry had ceased to speak about Anne Boleyn. “When do you want to marry, Your Majesty?”

A large smile broke out on Henry's face. “By the end of May.”

“This is a right decision, Your Majesty.” The sooner Henry married Jane Seymour, the better it would be for everyone, Charles mused. He himself craved to forget about Anne and his own contribution into her death: he had told Henry about the fake rumors about Anne’s supposed infidelity, and he prayed that Henry would never learn about his wretched lies.

Utterly pleased, the King laughed outright. “Charles, I am so happy!” he exclaimed. “I swear to you, my friend, everything will be different from tomorrow. We will be young and merry, as we used to be."

“Lady Jane deserves to be the Queen.”

Henry laughed heartily, his gaze kind and warm. “Jane will be the great Queen and the great wife.”

“I have no doubt,” Charles agreed with a smile. “Shall we go and celebrate?”

The King smiled appreciatively at his subject. “Yes. Let’s go, Charles.”

Henry embraced Charles with a pleased flush on his face, and the two friends laughed together. Henry motioned Charles to go, and they headed to the door. There was a dreamy smile on Henry’s face as he was enraptured by mirthful thoughts about Jane Seymour, his heart hammering harder in gladness at the prospect of having a healthy son with his beloved. Charles was happy to see Henry stepping out of the dark world, with its countless golden points of treacherous fire that had been set by Anne Boleyn.

“I will carry the memories about the day of Anne Boleyn’s execution forever; and so will everyone who watched her death today,” Charles Brandon thought to himself, looking at Henry’s smiling face. “Until the day of my death, the memories will not wither and I will not forget this day.”

As Henry and Charles stepped into the corridor, Henry suddenly paused, his eyes widening, his heart thundering wildly in his chest. In the end of the corridor, he could see Anne Boleyn in all her dark and tragic beauty. Anne looked as young and beautiful as she had looked when she had been alive, and there was a sad, tiny smile hovering over her lips. She was dressed in a magnificent dazzling white gown, which she had been wearingat the Chateau Vert pageant in honour of the imperial ambassadors, playing Perseverance, on the day when she had met Henry for the first time.

Henry watched Anne smile at him with her entrancing, enigmatic smile, her blue eyes, almost hooks to her soul, glowing and magnetizing him. He took in her face, briefly stopping his gaze on her rosy, tempting lips and then let his gaze embrace her well-curved, slender figure. Anne shook her head, as if disapprovingly, and gave Henry a cold, contemptuous glare. Her smile widened, stretching the paleness of her skin and an expression of profound self-satisfaction at the sight of Henry’s shocked face.

Suddenly, Anne said something quietly and gritted her teeth. Now the self-satisfaction on her face was blended with the most unforgiving hatred. Henry stood shocked and frightened, thinking that his mind was playing joke with him, shaking his head in disbelief, as if trying to shake off the unreality from himself. It was unbearable for Henry to see the faces of two women – Anne’s smiling face and Anne’s hateful face, both faces of the same woman whom he had sent to death.

“I was innocent, and you killed me,” Anne Boleyn proclaimed, looking straight into Henry’s eyes. Then a curiously white cloud obscured her figure that turned lurid and then disappeared.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?” Charles inquired, his expression concerned.

“I am fine,” Henry respondedin a frightened voice, chocking with words.

The Duke of Suffolk put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, what happened?”

King Henry didn’t reply. He stood quiet and solemn for a long moment, looking at the other side of the corridor where he had seen Anne. Suddenly, Henry began shaking as he distinctly heard the running of the light feet somewhere around, and Charles had to support him. Henry’s mind drifted off to the past when he’d had a dream in which he had been chasing after Anne in the corridors of the palace. Then he could again see Anne who stood beside him, tall, white and delicate as an angel in a gorgeous picture.

Henry could see distress in Anne’s deep blue eyes as she looked at him, with a ghost of a sickening and contemptuous smile she had given him a minute ago. Anne still looked even more beautiful in her death because now her exotic features were softened by something angelic, though she had the same glossy, dark hair, the same mysterious blue eyes, and the same lovely, alabaster face. Now her smile was like a shadow of purifying death and there was the bright seal of the light of Heaven upon her pure, young face. There was something less human and more angelic in all her features.

“I was innocent. All the accusations against me were false,” Anne said coldly, her expression hard but yet strangely detached. Then her figure was engulfed by the same white cloud, and she was gone.

Henry rested one hand upon Charles’ arm. “I am alright,” he said in the voice that didn’t convince even him. His face was perfectly white now, but his knees didn’t shake anymore because he didn’t see Anne and didn’t hear her footsteps. Now he felt that he was less frightened. “Let’s go.”

Henry almost dragged Charles from the corridor, wishing to escape from the place where he had seen Anne. Henry’s mind was reeling, and he thought that he was going mad. The vision of Anne Boleyn was enough to bring back all the pain back, and his hatred for the dead woman strengthened at the thought that she had dared lie to him about her innocence even after her death. No, he wouldn’t let her haunt him forever: he would forget Anne and be happy with his sweet Jane, he gave himself the word. Yet, the awful nameless panic and the mortal horror came into Henry’s heart and soul, and he again felt icy chill freeze his bones and stir his hair with the touch of Anne’s ghostly hand.

“I will not let you intrude into my life, Anne,” Henry thought as they passed a corridor and turned into the long hallway. “You are a liar and a whore, even if you appear here in the bright and angelic light. Burn in the hellfire for all your sins and leave me alone; you are dead.” But the voice in the back of his head whispered to Henry that Anne wouldn’t leave him alone and would haunt him until doomsday.


End file.
